How can the flower blossom when the Garden ebbs in cancer?
Who will notice our tears in dark rains to restore?
…and whose hands will saviour who dines unsublime?
Today is libyans, a tale we tell of Escapees;
but to wither a leper in this Ancestry or war- through
a sojourner, which has survived your satire?
I am in the middle of no where.
My desert eyes bleed blood and my red feet
have seen this wilderness called life
But whence comes Canaan;
from fellow-compatriots who silently shares this misery
or night Shepherds who route same route
seasons long past and now?
“Are we cursed”
That we refuse to patch broken walls and give no lizards
some habitations
“or doomed to never get better”
That we steadily partake of the same sour fruits,
Husbands and Wives making public our nakedness boldly.
We are no different, foreign or Black,
Green libyan or Nigerian,
and your slavery, More, who sits,
watches and do nothing to birth freedom
from black masters in our homes, schools, parks,
offices, streets, pinnacles…and down through
every nook and cranny of our world.
A new dawn I seek, not just for Nativity’s sake
But a green life for humanity, slaves,
servants or masters and not being teared apart
like running waters.
I am no prodigal.
I am yours, flesh and blood.
